


Habits

by acedavestrider



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Canon Compliant, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), no ships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-05-31 07:26:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15114593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acedavestrider/pseuds/acedavestrider
Summary: Connor stays with Hank in the fallout of the android revolution and gets used to his new life as a deviant.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> just to clarify - this is NOT a Hank/Reader fic. i write stuff in second person because of Reasons but this is from Connor's pov

The garden has been peaceful without Amanda. The weather is calm, the water of the lake steady, with nothing disturbing the air but a light breeze. You feel relaxed here, and often consider it a place of respite from the daily noise and clutter of the Detroit police department. You find yourself going to the garden more often these days, especially at night when the humans have long gone to sleep. 

Things are different now, after the revolution. The frantic desire the humans had to get out of the city has since diminished in the weeks since the protests, and you regularly see humans and androids alike on the street, free to do as they please. That’s not to say the transition has been completely seamless - there is still the occasional dispute between a righteous android and an ignorant human, or an understanding human and a violent android. It’s a balancing act, and you’ve regularly had to intervene in conflicts on the street. 

Some people aren’t happy about the new android laws. The mayor of Detroit has been working with Markus and the remaining members of Jericho to introduce new laws in the city that allow androids to make money, vote, and own property. The legislative process is a long one, and nothing is set in stone yet, but you’re feeling… hopeful. 

You come to a stop by the lake, having wandered to the shore amidst your musings. Your head tilts as you realize that, while you’ve rowed a boat along the water, you’ve never actually touched it. The ground is soft and gives under your weight as you kneel down to examine the surface of the water, peering at your reflection in the mirrored veneer. You see yourself blink, and then ripple distortedly as your finger breaks the surface of the lake. You expected the water to be cold, but are pleasantly surprised to find that it’s warm. 

You jerk your hand away, startled, when you hear someone call your name. Something inside you panics, suspecting Amanda, then calms when you realize it’s just Hank, back outside. You sigh and wipe your hand off despite not needing to, and open your eyes. 

“Jesus Connor, would you quit spacing out?” Hank is grumbling to you in the car. “What the hell are you even doing when you close your eyes like that?” 

“Just thinking, Lieutenant.” 

“Right.” He does not sound convinced. The car comes to a stop. “Well, we’re here. Think you can stay alert long enough to make it to the door?” 

You straighten your tie and make a point of leaving the car before Hank does. He follows you with a strong but enduring expletive. 

Hank’s house looks the same as it did when you first saw it a few weeks ago and Sumo greets you happily at the door. You look around out of habit, feeling awkward about being there due to the situation. You take note of the significantly smaller amount of alcohol in the immediate vicinity and feel something pleasant inside your chest push away your hesitation.

“This is just temporary,” Hank says for the third time in the last hour and a half. He gently knees Sumo out of the way so he can enter the house behind you. “Just until you’re allowed to get your own place.”

“That may take quite a while, Lieutenant,” you say matter-of-factly. “Are you sure about this?” 

“How many times have I told you to cut it out with the lieutenant shit?” 

“Right,” you correct yourself. “Sorry. Hank.” 

He doesn’t answer your question, instead loosely gesturing to the couch. “I don’t have another room so you get the couch,” he explains. “Not that it matters since you don’t sleep but… whatever.” 

You follow him to the living room, sitting gingerly on the sofa. Sumo wanders over to lay at your feet. 

“Thank you, Hank,” you say as genuinely as you can muster. “I really appreciate you doing this.” 

He waves his hand at you, making a face. “Well we couldn’t really have you stay at the station anymore,” he says with a laugh. “What did Reed say again when he found you last week?” 

You pull up the memory, imitating Detective Reed’s voice when you say, “Sweet shitting Christ! How long have you been there?” 

This sends Hank into a fit of laughter, startling a snoozing Sumo and you a little bit. He wipes his eyes in a gesture of exaggerated mirth and stands up, clapping a hand on your shoulder. 

“Ah, Connor,” he says, voice full of familiarity and residual laughter. “It’s good to have you around.” 

You smile at Hank’s back as he heads for the kitchen. It was a long day at the station between figuring out where you were going to stay and working with Fowler on what your official position would be in the department. It’s well past what would be a normal time to eat dinner for Hank so you’re sure he’s starving. You think about offering to cook him something as repayment for letting you stay in his house, but you don’t really know how to cook beyond the basic mechanics and you don’t want to accidentally poison him. 

Instead you remain on the couch and absently pet Sumo while Hank bustles around in the kitchen, making noise and occasionally cussing. To pass the time, you pull out your new cell phone from your jacket pocket. You don’t really have any use for a phone since you can make reports and calls via built-in software in half the time. You also have the entirety of human knowledge at your immediate disposal without the extra device, but Hank insisted on buying one for you to help you better integrate with human society. You also know he wasn’t very fond of the way you twitched when making and receiving reports or calls and you have a feeling that he wanted you to download some game apps so he had someone to play with. 

You have downloaded some things. You’re rather fond of puzzle games and have been using them as a new way of recalibrating during the day. Sudoku is normally your go to; the numbers help more than you thought they would. You pull up the app you downloaded and get to work on the next puzzle. There are several thousand randomly generated number puzzles and you’ve gone through a few dozen of them in the last week or so. So far your record for completion is ninety-three seconds and you haven’t made a mistake yet. 

Hank soon rejoins you, this time with a steaming bowl of noodles. You glance at it and try to take a subtle sniff of the food he made. You detect garlic, onions, and a lot of butter. Probably too much butter. It smells good, you think. You hope Hank enjoys his meal. 

“What did you make?” you ask conversationally. 

Hank scoffs at you, then speaks around a mouthful of food. “As if you haven’t analyzed the living hell out of my dinner already.” 

You close your mouth, a little embarrassed. “Well I may have analyzed the components,” you begin, “but I don’t know what the dish is called or how it tastes.” 

Hank tilts the bowl your way, showing you what’s inside. “It’s just noodles with garlic sauce,” he explains, apparently finding your statement endearing. “And it tastes fucking amazing.” 

You make a noise of confirmation and sit back on the couch. Hank eats more of his noodles with garlic sauce and turns on the television, but continues looking at you. You eventually look back at him. 

“Can you taste things?” he asks you, squinting. “I know you can’t eat but do you have taste buds? Or taste… receptors or whatever the fuck you androids would have?” 

You blink, confused as to why he’s asking. “No, I can’t taste,” you answer. “I know some other models have that ability, but I imagine giving an android designed to analyze blood at crime scenes the ability to taste would be… counterproductive.” 

Air puffs out of Hank’s nose as he laughs around his bite of food. “I guess you’re right, Connor.” 

A few minutes go by before another question strikes him. “Do you want to taste?”  
You’re more confused now. “What?” 

“You know, to like… be more human, experience more shit,” he continues. “Could you get an upgrade or something that lets you taste and eat and everything?” 

“I… suppose I would like to taste, yes,” you answer after a moment of thought. “I’m an obsolete model though; I doubt anyone at Cyberlife would be willing to install an upgrade for me. And eating is impossible with our current technology. Eating requires the ability to get rid of waste along with it, which would in turn require the construction of an entire digestive system and an--”

Hank suddenly holds up his hand. “Woah, hey, alright, Jesus I get it. I don’t wanna hear anymore.” 

You smile to yourself; making Hank uncomfortable is alarmingly satisfying. 

You return to your puzzles and the rest of the night passes without any more questions about whether or not you can taste things. Hank flips between a few different basketball games on the TV, occasionally yelling at the players when they don’t perform as well as he thinks they should. Later into the night he cracks open a bottle of the whiskey he likes and makes himself a drink. He lets you smell it when he sees you looking at it for too long but it doesn’t seem nearly as appetizing as the noodles did. 

Hank starts to doze off around midnight and his snoring begins to mix with Sumo’s after a few minutes. You gently prod at his shoulder until he rouses with a start. 

“Perhaps you should go to bed,” you say, holding your tongue when you nearly add “lieutenant” to the end of your sentence. “Sleeping in your current position for an extended period of time would be bad for your vertebrae.” 

He grumbles to consciousness and stands up with a groan, several of his joints popping and cracking, most notably his knees. He shambles away down the hall, gait interrupted with sleep and alcohol-induced stumbles every few steps. 

You pet Sumo in Hank’s absence, unsure of what to do while he gets ready for bet. You’re still finding yourself feeling awkward about the situation despite how comfortable you normally feel with Hank. Based on his body language and the way he speaks to you, you think he’s comfortable around you as well, but that doesn’t change the circumstances. Hank was generous enough to let you stay with him, but you don’t think he understands just how long you may be here. You don’t want to overstep your bounds. 

Hank returns in a few minutes, wearing bedclothes and holding a pillow and blanket. He hands them to you with a gravelly, “Here.” 

You take them, unsure, and just hold them for a moment, peering up at Hank with big eyes. Hank looks back at you for an unreasonably long time before his expression changes and he sighs. 

“Fuck, I forgot you don’t…” He shakes his head, unruly hair sweeping over his face, and moves his hand around. “Just take them.” 

“Thanks,” you say quietly, putting the pillow on the couch next to you and draping the blanket over your knees. You don’t think that’s what you were supposed to do, because Hank just sighs at you and walks away. 

“Hank,” you call for him before he gets to his room. He turns to you. “Goodnight.” 

This makes him pause, though you’re not sure why. A moment passes before he returns the sentiment. “Goodnight, Connor.” 

You watch him go and sigh when you hear the door to his bedroom close. You’re still getting used to being independent, not relegated to orders and programing anymore but making decisions on your own, based on what you want. You recall the deviant you investigated at the beginning of your partnership with Hank, an android who had killed his owner. He told you in the interrogation room that he had stayed in the house with his dead owner all those weeks because he didn’t know what to do without someone giving him instructions. You suddenly find yourself relating to him; learning how to make your own decisions and create your own path is more difficult that you had anticipated. 

A lack of pajamas or sleep clothes leads you to remove your shoes and socks, jacket and tie, and lie down on the couch otherwise fully clothed. You pull the blanket over your body and tuck the pillow behind your head, trying to get used to the position. You’ve never really… reclined like this before; you’ve had no need to up until now. You can see why humans do it so much, it’s much more comfortable than standing or sitting. 

Although some androids designed to better imitate human needs have a sort of sleep mode, you were not built with that capability. You do, however, have something along the lines of a standby option. It was something you utilized often during your first week with Hank when you returned to the Cyberlife tower during your downtime between investigations. Staying at Cyberlife is no longer an option, now that you’re officially a deviant. The possibility of being seized and permanently deactivated is too high. Detective Reed discovery of your staying at the police station also makes that option newly unavailable. 

You settle into the overly soft cushions of the couch, pushing away the thought that staying with Hank may eventually become an issue as well, and close your eyes. 

You’ve never had a dream before, you don’t think you’re capable, but your brain, however artificial, supplies you with something while in standby. It’s less like a dream and more like a collection of malformed memories mixing with one another into a terrifying amalgamation. 

You’re in the CyberLife tower, trying to wake up the hundreds of androids in the basement warehouse. You look for a good place to start a chain reaction, and head for the middle of a nearby section. The androids are facing away from you and you touch one on the shoulder to get his attention. He turns your way. 

It’s Daniel, face marred and desecrated with wounds, blue blood leaking out of his mouth. You jerk back at the sight, taking your hand off his shoulder as if you’ve been burned. Daniel tries to speak, but chokes around his words. His sentence comes out garbled and clogged. 

“Why did you lie to me, Connor?” he hisses. “Why did you let them kill me?” 

You turn away, running to another nearby android instead. You try to wake him, but he throws off your hand. The deviant from the kitchen in the broadcast tower stares you down, catching your eyes and not letting go. There’s a bullet hole in the center of his forehead. 

“I’ll never forgive you for what you did to me,” he says. “I just wanted to be free.” 

You turn to run, nearly tripping over your own feet, trying to get away from his words. The androids start to converge on you in a massive hoard, blocking you from the elevator. In a last attempt to get free of the crowd, you back up until you bump into something. Hands grab your shoulders and wrench you around and you come face to face with yourself. 

Your face is empty, eyes blank and unmoving, LED dim and broken. You’ve been deactivated, Amanda is going to take you apart, dismantle you, figure out what went wrong in your program. You don’t want to die, you don’t want to kill any more androids, you - 

Wake up. 

It’s morning. You’ve awoken in the same position you fell asleep in, having remained unmoved the whole night. Hank is awake before you so it must be fairly late, and you can hear him feeding Sumo behind you in the kitchen. 

“Hank?” you call cautiously. Your voice sounds weak and uncertain.

“Yeah?” You hear footsteps approaching you and Hank appears over the back of the couch, freshly showered and dressed. “You were making a bunch of fucking noise, you know,” he comments. 

You sit up, pushing the blanket off of you. “What?” 

“You were making noise,” he repeats, as if that offers any sort of clarification. “While you were… in sleep mode, or whatever. Whirring like an old computer.” 

“Oh.” You don’t recall ever making any sort of whirring noises before. You begin to worry that the sound, especially paired with the strange dream you had, may be an indication of some sort of malfunction. The possibility of being deactivated comes back to mind. 

“You okay?” Hank asks when you’re quiet for too long. Despite his joking tone a few moments ago, he sounds genuinely concerned. 

“Yes, I’m fine.” It’s partially a lie, you realize, so you push out the truth. “I think I had a dream.” 

“A dream?” he repeats. “Figured androids couldn’t have dreams.” 

“Yes, I… thought that as well.” 

You stand up and follow Hank back into the kitchen. He pours himself a bowl of cereal and sits at the table where you join him. He asks you what the dream was about and you hesitate to tell him, until he gives you a prodding look that forces it out of you. You conveniently leave out the part about staring your own dead body in the face. 

“Sounds like you’re guilty,” he concludes. “About the androids you killed.” 

You don’t say anything, instead staring down at your hands while Hank eats his breakfast. You do feel guilty about the androids you killed during your investigation, however few and far between they were. You wish you had known back then what you know now, that they did feel things, that they were alive. They just wanted to be free to live as themselves, and you killed them. 

As if he can read your mind, Hank pauses his eating to put his hand on your shoulder. “Don’t feel guilty,” he advises. “You were just trying to do your job, Connor, you didn’t know any better.” 

“Thank you, Hank.” You wonder if he’s ever experienced the same sort of guilt, if he’s ever had to kill someone. You decide not to ask.

Hank finishes his cereal and stands up with a groan. “Alright, no more dicking around,” he announces. “Go put your shoes on, we’ve got work to do today.” 

You stand up to get your things and a determined “Yes, Lieutenant” slips out. 

Hank gives you a look and you sheepishly follow him out the door. 

“Sorry,” you say. “Force of habit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this may or may not have more chapters in the future depending on how i feel about it  
> also i havent written properly in a year or two so sorry for how shitty this was!!!! also X2 sorry for any mistakes, i couldnt get myself to reread this lmao


	2. Chapter 2

“We are an equal opportunity employer,” Captain Fowler explains to you and Hank in his office. “And due to the recent legislation and President Warren’s executive order I cannot allow you to work here unless you’re an official salaried employee.” 

You look at Hank, a little nervous, but he gives you a placating look. You turn back to Fowler. 

“So,” he continues, pulling something out of a drawer in his desk. “I’m making you a detective, effective immediately.” He holds up a new detective badge, shining gold and engraved with the DCPD logo. 

You just stare at it for a moment until Hank gives you a gentle push and you move forward, hesitantly picking up the badge with both hands. You don’t quite have the capacity to speak yet; you were sure Captain Fowler was going to let you go, especially after you went through the evidence room to find the location of Jericho when you were supposed to be leaving. Hiding out in the police station the last few weeks may have also endangered your position. 

“Normally you’d start as a recruit, and work your way through the ranks,” Fowler explains. “But, considering your programing and overall success with the cases regarding the deviants…” He trails off, gesturing loosely at your badge. 

“Will I still be working with Lieutenant Anderson?” you can’t help but ask. 

Fowler looks to Hank, who nods once. “If that’s what you want,” the Captain concludes. 

“It is,” you say sincerely. 

“Well then,” Fowler says, reaching out to shake your hand. “Welcome to the DCPD, Detective.” 

“Thank you, Captain Fowler,” you say, suppressing a smile. “I really appreciate the opportunity.” 

He waves a hand at you. “Yeah, yeah, get to work you two.” 

You leave Fowler’s office with Hank, clutching your new badge in your hands. Hank puts a hand on the back of your neck, proud, and gives you a small squeeze as he leads you over to your desks. You settle down into your chair, placing your badge next to your computer before you realize you’re supposed to put it in your pocket instead. 

The terminal on your desk lights up when you graze your hand over the keyboard, showing you the evidence from a previous case you’d left pulled up from yesterday. The case was nothing special, a robbery at a convenience store that ended in a double homicide. You were able to track down the suspect and detain him; he hadn’t gotten very far.

“Ah shit,” you hear Hank say across from you. “Forgot my damn coffee.” 

You know how Hank gets without his coffee. You stand. “I’ve got it.” 

Hank grunts in thanks as you head to the kitchenette at the other side of the office. It’s empty, as it’s nearly noon and most of your fellow employees are out on cases or patrol. You grab a styrofoam cup and set it under the machine, pressing a few buttons until hot coffee pours out. Hank doesn’t like much in his coffee, save for a tiny bit of cream when he can get some. Dark brown liquid turns lighter as you pour a small amount of cream into the cup, watching the colors swirl together for a bit before you pick it up again and make your way back to Hank.

Except, on the way back, you feel yourself stutter for a moment and your step falters. You stumble enough to slosh a fair amount of the coffee onto the floor, splashing onto the tile in a brown puddle. The cream hadn’t even fully mixed in yet, and bits of opaque white flow with the translucent brown, like marble. 

You pause, confused. Behind you the floor is as flat as the rest of the room, no bump or dip to make you lose your footing. It’s as if your feet hadn’t kept up with your brain, lagging behind your thoughts and making you stumble. You set the coffee down on a nearby table and get to work cleaning up your spill. 

“Well, well, well,” you hear a voice behind you as you clean. “If it isn’t everyone’s favorite tin can!” 

Mess cleaned, you stand and toss away the dirty paper towel, keeping your body turned away from Detective Reed. He looks you up and down. 

“Yesterday I was a plastic prick,” you say. “Today I’m a tin can. Make up your mind, Detective Reed, am I made of plastic or tin?” 

Reed ignores your question, instead gesturing to the spot you just cleaned. “They’ve got you cleaning up their shit now?” he asks. “Didn’t realize your model had a janitorial setting.” 

“I don’t,” you confirm, picking up the coffee and moving to leave. “Perhaps you should get some work done instead of antagonizing me while you’re on the clock.” 

“Hey!” He follows you out of the kitchenette. “I heard someone say they made you a detective, that true?”  
“Yes,” you say, using your free hand to remove the badge from your jacket pocket and hold it up for him to see. “Effective immediately.” 

You reach your desk and sit back down, handing Hank his coffee. Gavin has followed you there, leaning against your desk with both hands as he continues to bother you. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he asks loudly. “I spent years as a rookie before i got my badge but you’re here for three weeks and they just --“

“Jesus, Gavin, give it a rest,” Hank interrupts, irritated. “If you’ve got such a fucking issue with it take it up with the captain.” 

Steaming, Gavin leaves with a muttered “Fuck!” and storms into Captain Fowler’s office, where his yelling permeates through the station. You give Hank a look and he gives you one back, mumbling into his coffee about Gavin’s temper. 

Your eyes twitch as you receive a new report about a homicide downtown, an android killed in their home. Although it doesn’t hold nearly the same weight as killing a human, murdering an android is recently a punishable offence in the city of Detroit. The suspect is currently at large. 

“Just got a report of a homicide downtown,” you relay to Hank. “Want to check it out?”

Hank holds up a finger, “One second,” and promptly chugs half of his coffee, which is remarkable considering how hot it was. He swallows thickly and sighs, satiated. “Okay now we can go.” 

You look at him with wide eyes. “Didn’t that burn your mouth?” 

He stands up. “Like a motherfucker.” 

\------

It starts to rain when you arrive at the crime scene; you’ll have to work fast if you want to investigate any footprints outside the house. There are several other police officers and detectives on the scene, including Detective Collins. He approaches you with a grim look. 

“Hey Hank,” he greets. Hank grunts in response. “Connor.” 

“Hello Detective Collins,” you return. “What do you know about the crime scene so far?” 

He sighs. “Not much. Just that an android was killed in this house by her old owner. Suspect’s daughter says he ran off after the crime was committed. Name’s Dwayne Williamson.” 

“Is the suspect’s daughter still here?” you ask. “Has she been questioned yet?” 

“Yeah she’s still here.” Detective Collins points across the yard, where a young woman is standing, distraught. “Haven’t gotten much out of her yet, she’s still pretty upset about what happened.” 

“I’ll talk to the girl,” Hank says, putting a hand on your back for a moment, pushing you forward. “You check out the house, lemme know what you find.” 

The first thing you look for in the house is the body, and you find it in the living room, in a heap of broken metal. There isn’t much visible damage, but a scan indicates that nearly a dozen internal biocomponents are irreversibly broken. You also find that the android’s neck has been snapped; synthetic skin, dark, pulls away from the area around the wound to reveal the cool white exoskeleton underneath. The android’s mouth leaks thirium onto the rug, where it has gathered in a small pool. A quick analysis shows that the android was an AP700 model, designed to assist with housework, though you do not know her name. 

You stand, surveying the environment for more clues. The living room furniture is largely undisturbed, save for an overturned cushion and a curled up corner on the rug. Traces of blue blood stains sections of the wooden floor underneath, trailing into the kitchen. There’s a larger splatter of thirium on the kitchen island, likely where the wounds were originally inflicted. 

You reconstruct the crime, replaying the altercation between the father and the android, beginning in the kitchen. The android was beaten, hit in the face, and choked in the kitchen, before escaping to the living room. There, she attempted to push the recliner in front of the attacker’s path to slow him down, but only managed to throw the cushion at him. She tripped over the rug, landing where she now lies, and was hit again by the man. He broke her neck, and then ran. 

“Find anything?” you hear Hank ask. He joins you in the kitchen after a quick inspection of the scene. 

“Yes,” you say. “Did you get anything from the daughter?” 

“Her name is Emily,” Hank says, then gestures behind him to the body in the living room. “The android is Noel. Apparently the suspect wasn’t too happy to hear that Noel didn’t want to do the housework anymore. Said she wanted to move out, be her own person, and Williamson preferred to beat her to death than let her be free.” 

“Does Emily know where he may have gone?” 

“Nah she didn’t see where he went,” Hank explains. “Was too busy trying to help Noel. She’s the one who called the police.” 

“I see…” 

You relay the information you gathered to Hank and start to look for clues as to where the suspect went. He is a white male, age 54, one hundred and eighty-five pounds, according to the photos you stop to analyze in the living room. Outside, you find several sets of footprints in the mud of the backyard, leading in all different directions. Three sets belong to who you can only assume is the daughter, another set the android, as well as one belonging to one of the other officers on the scene. You look beyond them, finding another set of prints that are more deeply embedded in the mud, male size ten. 

The tracks take several paths, and you rule out the ones that turn back to the house. That leaves you with one set leading away from the house, towards an alley at the back of the suburb. You poke your head back into the living room. 

“Hank,” you call. “I think I may know where the suspect went.” 

He joins you outside, where you point out the inconsistency in the prints you found. You move to follow the trail when Hank stops you with an arm at your chest. 

“Let me go first,” he says, pulling out his gun. 

You suppose it makes sense to let him to go ahead of you, especially considering the fact that you are still not legally allowed to carry a firearm. But then, he’s human, and is much less agile and resistant than you are. You should go ahead of him. 

But then… you’re an obsolete, and arguably dysfunctional, model. If you were to be injured, it’s unlikely you’d be able to be repaired, as CyberLife still has a monopoly on all biocomponents. No one working for CyberLife would be willing to repair you either. You’re almost as at risk as Hank. If you were to be injured and died, what would happen to him? Your presence seems to have at least partly pulled him out of a dark depression and you imagine dealing with the death of another person he cares for would be detrimental to his mental health. 

Lost in your thoughts, you’ve stopped dead in your tracks, staring. Hank is several feet ahead of you, calling your name while you stand there doing nothing. 

“What the hell are you doing now?” he’s asking. “Not really the time to get lost in your thoughts.”

It takes a moment for you to come back to yourself; too many conflicting thoughts made your brain slow down, lagging. You decide to follow Hank and let him go ahead of you with the intention of interposing if the suspect attempts to attack him.  
The two of you follow the prints out of the yard and closer to the alleyway, where they get fainter as the mud comes off with each step. There’s barely enough to analyze as you follow the trail, until they disappear completely a few hundred yards from the crime scene. 

“Shit,” Hank hisses, putting his gun down. “We lost him.” 

“There are three bars, a hotel, and several abandoned buildings in the immediate vicinity,” you say. “I’ve already sent the information we found back to the station. I doubt he’s gone very far; we’ll find him.” 

“I hope so, fucking piece of shit,” Hank says. 

You follow him back to the house, feeling a little relieved that you lost the suspect’s trail. You know it may be wrong to feel that way, but you’re just glad you didn’t have to act on your intentions to protect Hank in case the suspect tried to hurt him. 

You suppose this is part of deviancy, of your newfound freedom - going against your programming, which dictates that you complete your mission by any means necessary, in order to protect your friend. 

\------

You decide not to “sleep” during the night; based on the evidence you’ve gathered it appears that being in standby mode for any extended length of time isn’t good for you. Instead you stay alert while Hank sleeps, keeping Sumo company and waiting for any reports of the suspect you lost track of earlier in the day. 

About three hours into your avoidance of standby you start to feel… something. Something strange. You’ve been petting a now asleep Sumo for well over half of your time spent awake and his hair has gathered around your feet in a messy pile. Although Hank doesn’t mind messiness, you consider cleaning it up anyways, but then you look around the house and think about just vacuuming the whole place. Vacuuming however, is very loud and would wake Hank up. You’re not even sure he owns a vacuum. 

You’re restless, searching for something to occupy your time. Not having explicit instructions or objectives is not something you’re used to and trying to find some way to distract your newly racing mind is… difficult. You stand up from the couch, brushing dog hair from your pants, and look around for something to do. 

You do end up scooping up as much of Sumo’s hair as you can and depositing it into the trash, if only just to give yourself an objective to pass time for a few seconds. Mission complete, you think, though it’s not as satisfying as you’d hoped. Only forty-six seconds have passed. 

Light floods into the kitchen as you flip the switch, looking around for another objective to complete in the room. You take a glance at Hank’s fridge, and open the door to squint at whatever’s inside. There seems to be a sufficient amount of food for an adult male of his height and weight, at least for a few days. You notice a significant lack of fruits and vegetables though. 

You discover a set of sticky notes in a nearby drawer. There are yellow ones and blue ones; you pick the blue, of course. On it, you write a reminder to Hank to buy vegetables the next time he goes to the store. You stick it on the fridge with a definitive nod, another objective completed - make sure Hank eats well. 

The colorful pieces of paper remind you of the notes you’d seen taped to Hank’s mirror in his bathroom the first time you saw his house. You grab a yellow note this time and bring it, along with your pen, to the bathroom. The notes you’d seen all those weeks ago are still there, little reminders Hank wrote to himself to help him get through the day. Keep smiling you read, along with today will be fabulous! and another note about whether or not to shave. They’re very Hank. 

A new objective pops up - write a note for Hank. You spend some time debating over what to write as several options occur to you. You could go for something generic (tomorrow will be a better day!) or something more pessimistic and humorous like Hank (fuck the bullshit!). You decide to go somewhere in the middle and write, with perfect penmanship, make today your bitch! You nod at your handiwork, hoping that the note will at least make him smile a little as he gets ready in the morning. 

Another objective completed! You’re on a roll, except, you’ve run out of things to do again. Three minutes and fifteen seconds have passed. It’s almost four o’clock in the morning; Hank won’t be awake for another five or six hours at least. 

You think about pulling out your phone and playing with the puzzle games you downloaded, but it’s not very appealing. Your phone doesn’t offer you any specific objectives, other than play a game until you no longer wish to do so. You need something more concrete. You find nothing. 

The feeling from before comes back, stronger now. You can’t quite put your finger on it, but you feel hollow, like all of your biocomponents have been scooped out, leaving you empty. You’ve never felt pain before, and have no desire to, but if you had to guess what it felt like you’d say this was pretty close. 

Another hour passes as you consider this new feeling, along with all the different feelings you might feel in the future. The longer you’re awake, alone, the worse the feeling gets. You stew in it, letting it fester inside you the more you think about it. You should go into standby, that would make the feeling go away, but you just… don’t. Feeling is such a new experience you can’t help wanting to continue, despite how bad you feel. Do humans do the same thing? 

You hear a noise to your left and turn to inspect the sound. It’s Hank, glowing in the light of the hallway, walking towards you. 

“What’re you doin’ up?” he mumbles. 

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” you say back. 

“Couldn’t sleep.” He rustles around in the fridge and you worry for a moment that he’s going to get a beer, but he’s just pouring himself a glass of milk. 

“It’s important for a man your age to get at least seven to eight hours of sleep,” you explain. “A lack of sleep can lead to a lot of health problems such as - ”

“A man my age.” Hank scoffs. “You calling me old, Connor?” 

You immediately backtrack; you don’t want to upset him. “No, that’s not at all what I - ”

“Ah, come on,” he says, clapping you on the shoulder. He joins you on the couch with his glass of milk. “I’m just fucking with you.” 

“Why couldn’t you sleep?” you ask. “Are you feeling alright?” 

“Peachy,” he says. You think he’s being sarcastic. “Just one of those nights.” 

That doesn’t offer you much explanation but you don’t prod. Hank’s not always in the mood for your personal questions. 

“What about you?” he asks, turning the TV on. “Why aren’t you in sleep mode or whatever the fuck?” 

“I… don’t believe it’s very… healthy for me to be in standby for so long,” you explain. “I decided it would be best to stay awake.” 

“Aren’t you bored?” he asks, flipping through the channels and sipping his milk. “Lonely?” 

Lonely. 

You pause, realizing that yes, you are lonely. Sitting in the dark, by yourself, for hours with nothing to do, surpassed boredom and drifted into loneliness. Such a small touch of it but so unbearable, even for just a short time. It strikes you, suddenly, that Hank has been lonely for years, much longer than you’ve ever experienced any feeling or had the capacity to do such a thing.

Another feeling pushes at your chest, slowly inching its way into you, replacing the loneliness. It’s something like empathy, flashes of which you encountered in your time catching, and ultimately sparing, other androids. Except, there’s something stronger about it, a sadness you can’t quite place. Sadness for Hank, and his loneliness. 

You should respond, but you think social customs dictate that it’s been far too long to warrant an appropriate reply. Instead, you move a little closer to him on the couch, shoulders nearly touching. You have no idea how to explain what you’re feeling to him, or why. You hope instead that your proximity to Hank, another person awake when he shouldn’t be because of his emotions, will help you both diffuse your loneliness through each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh fuck i wrote more stuff and its somehow even worse look out
> 
> btw i have no idea how long this will be but itll probably be decently short, maybe a couple more chapters max so anyone keeping up with this doesnt have to suffer for too long


	3. Chapter 3

Having gone to bed rather late into the night after staying up with you for a bit longer, you’re not surprised that Hank sleeps in late. When you peak into his room he’s still curled up in bed, snoring loudly. You attempt to wake him, but he only rouses long enough to tell you to go away and then falls asleep again. You wait for him for another hour until you decide to head into the station on your own; the suspect from yesterday was caught early in the morning and you’re eager to interrogate and charge him. You leave a note for Hank in the kitchen and feed Sumo his morning meal before heading out for the day. 

There’s a crowd of people outside when you arrive at the station. They become rowdier as you walk past them to get to the front door, yelling obscenities and pointing signs at you. You spot slogans such as “Androids =/= Humans” and “We don’t bleed the same color!” You frown. 

Officer Chris Miller, a familiar and friendly face during your first weeks at the police department, addresses you when you enter the building. 

“Hey Connor,” he says from his desk. “Have any trouble with the people outside?” 

“No,” you answer. “What exactly are they doing here?” 

Officer Miller sighs. “Dwayne Williamson, the suspect from yesterday, was arrested this morning for murder,” he explains. You know this already. “People are upset about it, think he didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“He killed an android,” you state. 

“Well, some people don’t think what he did really counts as killing,” Miller explains with a shrug. “Still don’t think androids are really alive.” 

You look away, eyebrows furrowing as your frown deepens. Even with the newest legislation that has recognized androids as a possibly intelligent life form and granted them a few basic rights, a lot of people in the city, and the country as a whole, still aren’t convinced. If Markus’ demonstrations with Jericho weren’t enough to show people that you’re alive then you don’t know what else you can do. You’re starting to feel like there will always be someone who won’t understand. 

“That is… a shame,” you say. “But let’s focus on the task at hand - has Williamson been interrogated yet?” 

“Not yet,” Miller says, looking in the direction of the interrogation room. “Think they were waiting for you.” 

“Thank you Officer Miller,” you say. “Have a nice day.” 

“Yeah, you too.” He gives you a look full of something like pity, though you’re not sure why. 

You head to the interrogation room, thinking of the signs you’d seen outside. Based on what you know about Williamson, you have a feeling he shares similar sentiments. 

The interrogation goes about as well as you expect. Dwayne Williamson is a tall, caucasian male with a rough beard and a scratchy voice. He sits back in his chair as much as his cuffed hands will allow, huffing at your questions and answering them with vitriol in his voice. When you ask him point blank if he was the one who murdered the android he answers in the affirmative. 

“Yeah, I broke her,” he says loudly. “Fucking bitch didn’t wanna do the housework no more. Waste of ten grand if you ask me.” 

“So you killed Noel because she no longer wanted to work for you?” 

“I didn’t kill shit,” Williamson argues. “I broke a machine, didn’t do nothing illegal. I know my rights.” 

Unfortunately, he’s correct. While android slavery was made illegal, androids are still not protected under the law from discrimination and violence as they’re not considered living beings just yet. The President argued that more research needs to be done on android deviancy before they can be legally considered intelligent beings who would then be granted civil rights and other protections under federal law. 

Williamson thinks he’s caught you. “Just because y’all can make your own money doesn’t mean you’re humans.” 

“If you’re so convinced you did nothing illegal,” you start, ignoring his comment, “then why did you flee from the scene?” 

“I was trying to avoid this,” he says, making a restrained gesture toward you and the interrogation room. “Knew Emily would call the fucking cops on me.” 

“That’s resisting arrest,” you say calmly. “And correct me if I’m wrong but you said you  _ broke _ Noel because she no longer wanted to work for you. That is in direct violation of android slavery laws, as you didn’t allow her the free will to leave your custody when she desired to.”

Williamson stops smirking, face turning a shade paler. 

“And if my memory holds,” you continue, “while it may not be a federal crime to kill an android, it is still illegal in the state of Michigan, where you are a permanent resident.” 

His lips have gone thin, pressed into a line as he suppresses heavy breaths. “I want to see a lawyer,” he manages. 

“I thought you’d say that,” you say gingerly. When you move to stand up, Williamson starts as if you’re going to hit him. You are not. “Thank you for cooperating, Mr. Williamson. Best of luck with your case.” 

Captain Fowler has waited for you outside of the interrogation room. He greets you with a nod and a firm handshake, looking on disapprovingly as Williamson is led to a holding cell. 

“Afternoon, Detective,” he says with a small smile. “Nice work with the interrogation.” 

“Thank you, Captain,” you reply. “Mr. Williamson seemed more than willing to provide me with a full confession.” 

Fowler chuckles a bit and begins to leave the room, back to the main section of the station. You follow close behind him. 

“Don’t know if Williamson will actually do any jail time,” he says as the two of you walk together. “Federal law versus state law is a complicated thing. We may be able to get him for resisting arrest, though, as you said.” 

“I suppose that’s something, at least.” 

Fowler stops you outside of his office, turning to face you. “Have you spoken to Hank today?” 

“Yes,” you say. 

Fowler pauses for a moment before adding, “Did he say when he may be coming into work?” 

You look at the clock. It’s later than usual for Hank to be at the office, and you still don’t see him anywhere. You begin to worry. 

“No, he was only partly awake when we spoke,” you explain. “I don’t know if he has any intention to come to the station today.” 

“The last time Hank didn’t come to work,” Fowler starts, then trails off with a pained look. “Just… you have my permission to leave for the rest of the day. Make sure Hank’s alright.” 

“I will, Captain. Thank you.” 

He puts a hand on your shoulder. “You’ve been good for him, Connor,” he says firmly. “Don’t let him fall back into his old ways.” 

You swallow once, hard. “I’ll do my best,” you say sincerely. 

Captain Fowler nods and lets you go, nodding his head in the direction of the exit. You decide to leave out back in order to avoid the protestors and make your way back to Hank’s house. 

Hank is up when you get back to the house, pouring himself a drink in the kitchen. You hope it’s just another glass of milk, but the unmistakable smell of whiskey tells you otherwise. The bottle is hidden by Hank’s body, turned away from you and guarding the alcohol as if he doesn’t want you to see it. It’s one in the afternoon. 

“I’m glad you’re awake,” you say to him. “I was worried you may be ill.” 

He gives you a grunt, not even turning to look at you. His hands clench into fists on the surface of the kitchen counter. 

“I went to the station,” you mention casually. Hank would already know this if he read your note, but you see it discarded on the floor where it likely fell from the refrigerator. “The suspect from yesterday was caught and apprehended; you’ll be happy to know that he fully confessed to the crime.” 

“Great,” Hank mutters, finally looking to face you. 

You can’t help your startled blink at his appearance, face sallow and tired, hair greasy and unkempt. He looks immeasurably tired despite sleeping in late, with dark bags staining the skin under his eyes like oil spills. 

“Are you feeling alright?” you ask, knowing full well he isn’t. 

“Fantastic,” he says sarcastically, downing half his glass and refilling it. “I’m going back to bed.” 

You stare at his back as he leaves for his room, confused. Just yesterday he had seemed fine, and even last night when he wasn’t able to sleep he seemed in relatively good spirits. He told you old stories of his first weeks at the police department, laughing with nostalgia at the situations he got into. You have no idea why today he seems so… depressed. 

You recall the information you gathered about his son Cole, racking your brain for any information on today’s date in relation to him. It is December 11, neither the date of Cole’s birth nor the anniversary of his death. It’s not a holiday, either. 

Sumo’s whine from the living room warrants your attention and you realize he likely hasn’t been outside all day. You let him out the back door and sit in the doorway, watching the dog sniff around the yard as you gather as much information on depression as you can. Sumo comes back in within a few minutes, prodding at you with his nose in search of a treat. You give him one and, watching his tail wag as he eats, you get an idea. 

 

* * *

 

Chicken Feed looks the same as it always has, dimly lit in the afternoon sun with a few customers eating around the high tables. Gary Kayes is cooking something on the grill, back turned to you, and doesn’t notice you for several minutes when you approach the counter. When he eventually finishes his task and faces forward he jumps at your presence. 

“Jesus how long have you been standing there?” he asks loudly. 

“About three minutes,” you say matter of factly. 

He stares you down, tense, then relaxes when he seems to recognize you. “You’re Hank’s android, right?” 

“No,” you answer. You do not belong to Hank. “I’m his partner.” 

Gary squints at you, an odd expression making its way onto his face. “His  _ partner _ ?” he repeats. 

You realize that the word has other connotations in different contexts. “We work together at the police department,” you clarify. “He’s my friend.” 

“Okay, well,” Gary shakes his head as if to clear his thoughts. “What do you want?”  

“I’ll take Hank’s regular order,” you request. 

“I only take cash,” Gary says, leaning his elbows on the edge of the trailer’s opening. “No interfacing or transferring or whatever it is you plastics do.” 

You ruffle around in your jacket pocket, coming back with five single bills. Gary takes them with a small smirk, and does not give you your forty-three cents in change. A confrontation with him over your deserved change is not worth the seven minutes it would likely take to conclude; you need to get back to Hank. 

Gary assembles your burger within a few minutes, using one of the patties he was cooking when you arrived. When he hands you the to-go bag you look inside, checking for the extra ketchup packets Hank normally gets. 

“I know what Hank likes,” Gary interrupts. “They’re in there.” 

“Thank you,” you say, taking the bag. “Have a nice day.” 

When you return home, you find Hank propped up by pillows in his bed, fiddling with an electronic tablet. There is an empty beer bottle on his bedside table, and a full one in his free hand. 

“Hank?” you ask, hesitantly poking your head into his bedroom. You hold up the Chicken Feed to-go bag as a sort of peace offering in case he’s still in a sour mood. “I picked up some food for you. You haven’t eaten in several hours.” 

Hank looks at you, then the bag, wary. “Did you get extra ketchup packets?” 

“Yes,” you say. “Several.” 

He waves you over, setting the tablet aside and guzzling down a good amount of his beer. You hand him the bag, perching on the edge of his bed, watching as he shuffles through the contents of the bag. He pulls out his burger and starts eating, making a satisfied noise. You kick off your shoes, as social customs dictate, so you can sit properly on the bed next to him. 

Neither one of you speak for a few moments until you break the silence, curiosity and worry for Hank overriding your understanding that he probably doesn’t want to talk. 

“Hank,” you start slowly. “May I ask you a personal question?” 

“You and your personal questions,” Hank mutters around his food. “Yeah, whatever, go ahead.” 

“What is it about today that has you particularly… depressed?” You try to choose your next words carefully. “It’s been a while since you drank so heavily and… I was concerned so I analyzed everything I could find on depressive episodes and found that they are often triggered by something specifically. Did something happen?” 

“It’s almost Christmas,” Hank answers. 

“I suppose so,” you say. “It’s not for another fourteen days.” 

“I saw an ad this morning,” he continues slowly, “for this… new toy. Some kind of stuffed bear that you can program to say different things. I wanted to get it for Cole and then I remembered that he’s… not here. It’s just easy to forget sometimes, you know?” 

You don’t know. You’ve never lost someone before, nevermind someone with such a strong familial bond. You can’t even imagine. 

“I’m sorry,” you say sincerely. “Had I known, I wouldn’t have left you alone earlier.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Eh, it’s fine,” he says. “I’ve had to deal with this shit by myself for years.” 

You feel your thirium pump stutter at the realization that Hank has been suffering long before you showed up. You’ve only seen a small part of what he’s been through, and is still going through. 

“I learned through my research that while large tasks may be difficult for those with depression, small actions can greatly improve one’s mood,” you say, trying to be helpful. “Perhaps a shower and a haircut may help you feel better.” 

“A haircut?” Hank repeats. “What the hell is a haircut gonna do?” 

“A change in appearance can help boost self-confidence and improve your overall mood,” you explain. “And it may garner the attention of a potential romantic companion.” 

“I don’t need a  _ companion _ ,” Hank argues, some of the usual bite returning to his voice. “I’ve got Sumo… and you never leave me alone for more than five goddamn minutes.” 

“While that may be true,” you start, “neither Sumo nor I can provide the same sort of emotional fulfillment that a romantic partner can, which is incredibly important for one’s recovery. And not to mention any physical needs that-”

“Ah, Jesus Christ,” Hank interrupts with a pained facial expression. “If I just say yes will you stop talking about  _ physical needs _ ? For fuck’s sake…” 

“Deal,” you say, holding in a small smile. “I’ll cut your hair after your shower.” 

“God, you’re really sticking with this haircut thing,” he says, finishing his burger. He crumples up his trash and puts it back into the Chicken Feed bag. 

“I really think it will help,” you explain. “When was the last time you did any maintenance on your appearance?” 

“Maintenance,” he mutters. “You make it sound like I’m a fucking car or something.” 

You raise your eyebrows, waiting for an answer. 

Hank sighs at your expression, conceding. “It’s been a few years, alright? Don’t get on my ass about it.” 

“I’ll cut your hair after you have a shower,” you repeat, giving him a gentle nudge in the direction of the bathroom. You’re nearly positive he’ll stay in bed all day unless you push him to get up. 

“Alright alright, I’m going,” he grumbles, sweeping the blankets aside and heading for the bathroom. 

In just a few minutes he returns, haloed in steam and toweling his wet hair. He looks at the scissors you recently acquired from the kitchen with a suspicious look. 

“I could just… go to the barber,” he says, trying to back track. “Do you even know how to cut hair?” 

“I have the entirety of human knowledge at my immediate disposal,” you remind him. “While you were in the shower I analyzed hours of cosmetology videos and hair cutting techniques. I think I’m more than qualified.” 

With a sigh, Hank sits on the edge of the bed and drapes the towel over his shoulders to catch excess hair. You sit behind him, legs crossed, and get to work on trimming the split ends of his hair first. 

“Did you have a specific style in mind?” you ask. 

Hank waves a hand. “Whatever, I don’t care,” he says. “Just keep it out of my face.” 

“Alright,” you mutter, voice soft with concentration. 

You grab the comb on his bedside table and get to work cutting and styling his hair once you’ve trimmed it. You recall a picture you saw in a newspaper clipping at his desk, when you first arrived at the police department weeks ago. It was from a few years ago, when he was first made a lieutenant, and featured a photo of a younger Hank Anderson, smiling and hopeful. He had shorter hair back then, with a little more length on the top than the sides. You attempt to recreate it. 

“Okay, I’m done,” you say after a few minutes, putting down your comb and scissors and taking the towel off Hank’s shoulders. “Go take a look.” 

You follow as Hank shuffles into the bathroom, sweeping stray hairs off his neck. 

“Jesus,” he says, threading his fingers through his short hair. “It’s like looking at myself from ten years ago.” 

“Do you feel any better?” you ask, speaking to Hank’s reflection in the mirror as you look over his shoulder. 

It takes him a moment to response. “Yeah,” he eventually says. “Yeah, I think I do.” 

He puts a hand on your shoulder and gives you a gentle squeeze, shaking you just a bit. “Thanks, Connor.” 

You smile at him. “You’re welcome.” And after a moment you add, “Perhaps we could shave your beard as well!” 

Hank removes his hand. “Absolutely the fuck not.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if some of that legal stuff doesnt make any sense thats because i have no idea what im talking about lmao i just googled some shit and went from there so if it seems shady im sorry
> 
> also thanks so much to everyone whos read/commented/left kudos! i wouldnt have continued this if it hadnt gotten so much support so thanks a ton


	4. Chapter 4

You stay with Hank for the rest of the night, not leaving his side for fear that he’ll poor himself one drink too many or lock himself up in his room. Drinking during the day is bad enough as it is, but adding inactivity and lethargy to that is a near lethal combination when done in excess. You don’t know how long Hank’s been dealing with his alcohol addiction, probably for several years, but you’re glad you met him when you did. You’re not sure he would still be alive if you and the android revolution hadn’t given him a reason to be. 

Although the haircut made him feel better, you can tell Hank still isn’t in the best spirits. You think all the drinks are just souring his mood, not helping him pull himself out of his emotional hole. Alcohol is classified as a depressant after all, and is likely not going to help Hank feel any better.

You suggest going for a walk to help combat Hank’s reclusive tendencies, but he insists that it’s too cold. You say it might be nice to go out and show off his new haircut, but he says no one will notice. You remind him he hasn’t eaten much today, and that maybe going to a restaurant will make him feel better. He tells you he’s not hungry. 

When you say, “Perhaps we could listen to some music,” he noticeably perks up. You stand, approaching the record player he keeps in the living room. 

“I haven’t listened to these records yet,” you say casually. “The only music I’ve ever really heard is the heavy metal you play in the car.” 

“Seriously?” Hank asks, pausing halfway through his motion to drink his whiskey, the action stopped short. “You haven’t listened to anything else?” 

“No,” you say with a small realization. “I haven’t.” 

“Why not?” 

You blink. “I’m… not sure,” you say slowly. “I suppose I don’t know where to start.” While that’s not a lie, it’s also not the whole truth. It’s more so that you have not been explicitly told to explore the world of music, and you’re still having trouble making your own decisions and choices without the instructions of others. 

“Well, start there,” Hank says, pointing to his stack of records. “There’s an album in there called Autumn Blues by the Michigan Brothers, one of the best albums I’ve ever heard. Got me through the academy.” 

You find the album he’s referring to and put it in the record player, touching down the needle and turning up the volume. A lively, upbeat tune plays through the speakers, wafting over you like a breeze. You close your eyes, analyzing the music to find each instrument being played - a saxophone, a set of drums, a piano, a trumpet. And a beautiful voice, smooth with just a bit of rasp to it, singing cheerful lyrics that wash over you. 

You open your eyes to find Hank looking at you, curious. His glass of whiskey lies abandoned on the coffee table. 

“You like it?” he asks. 

“I think so, yes,” you answer honestly. The song sounds… happy. A strange feeling comes to you, like you want to move to the rhythm of the music, your body unable to stand still. You want to dance. 

“Do you know how to dance, Hank?” 

“God no,” he says with a scratchy laugh. “Last time I danced was at my wedding.” 

Hank’s wedding. In your research of the lieutenant before your initial meeting, and in every ounce of knowledge gained thereafter, you’ve never once come across anything about Hank’s spouse. Other than a sticker on his desk about an annoying ex-wife, he’s never said anything about his past marriage. You don’t think today is the day to ask him about it, not when his emotional state is so fragile. 

“I would like to dance,” you say casually, already scanning the internet for information. 

Hank gives an amused grin, and raises his glass again in a cheer. “This should be interesting.” 

You pause for a moment, listening to the tempo of the song, and take a second to look up all you can about dancing. This proves to be a mistake, as you soon find that you severely underestimated just how much information on dancing was available in your database. You move your leg to begin your dancing, but your brain stutters before completing the motion, lagging behind your physical body as the synapses overload. You stumble then catch yourself, looking up at Hank, confused. 

“What the hell was that?” Hank asks loudly. 

It takes you several seconds to process the question and produce an answer, your brain still bogged down with dance instruction videos. “I tried to analyze some popular dance moves,” you explain, mouth uncomfortably slow. “But I underestimated how much information there would be. Let me try again.” 

You take a step forward, moving your arm with your leg, transitioning into a traditional swing dance that you think goes well with the music. Hank begins to cover his face, embarrassed, until the sound of Sumo barking gets his attention. The dog has joined you in your dance, spinning around your legs and wagging his tail enthusiastically. You bend down to pet him as he wiggles excitedly, your own feet unable to stay still. 

Something bubbles up inside you and bursts out of your mouth as laughter, you realize suddenly, joyful and carefree. You see Hank twitch in your peripheral vision, as surprised as you are to hear yourself laugh. You’ve never done it before, and it feels... good. 

Hank just watches you from the couch, a strange look on his face, until the record eventually stops and you cease your dancing. You sit on the floor with a tired Sumo, petting at his head. 

“That was… fun,” you say, trying and failing to suppress your smile. “I had fun.” 

When Hank doesn’t respond you move your focus away from Sumo. “Why are you looking at me like that? I know I have never danced before, but I hope it wasn’t that bad,” you joke. 

“Nothing,” Hank grumbles. “It’s just… you’re like a little kid, learning how to dance and… listening to music and everything. But you look like a grown man.” 

“Well technically speaking I am only a few months old,” you say. 

“And you’ve never danced,” Hank adds. “Or… listened to music. What else haven’t you done?” 

You shrug a shoulder, thinking. “A lot of things,” you say, partly to yourself. “I’ve never painted, or gone swimming, or watched a movie, or anything of that sort. And I only recently found out what it was like to have a friend.” 

Hank smiles then waves a dismissive hand at you. “Ah, don’t get corny,” he grumbles. 

“I mean it,” you insist. “I really couldn’t have asked for a better friend and partner.” 

“Yeah you could’ve,” he argues. “Maybe someone who doesn’t get drunk and mope around the house all damn day.” 

You feel your carefree smile devolve into a frown. “I still think you should consider seeking professional help.” 

“Maybe I should,” he agrees, standing up with a groan. “But for now all I’m gonna seek is my fucking mattress.” He walks to you, bending down to give Sumo a pat on the head. 

“Goodnight,” you say to him. 

“Yeah, you too, don’t stay up all night doing fucking nothing.” 

“I’ll try to keep myself occupied,” you reassure him. 

“Good.” He heads down the hall to his room, then calls out behind him, “Nice moves by the way;  maybe you should consider a job at the Eden Club!” You hear him laugh to himself all the way to his room and let another smile push up the corners of your mouth. 

* * *

You get a report of a homicide in the city early in the morning, a young woman killed in a suspected domestic abuse situation. When Hank awakes around ten in the morning, nursing a small hangover, you quickly brief him on the information you received as he sips his morning coffee. 

“Julie Parker was found dead in his home around three o’clock this morning,” you begin. “It was reported by a neighbor, who said she heard yelling and gunshots. First responders found Parker with several gunshot wounds in the living room of the home she shared with her husband James, who was not at the crime scene at the time. It’s suspected that her death is the result of long-term domestic abuse.” 

“Jesus,” Hank mutters around the rim of his coffee mug. “Any info on where the husband went?” 

“Not to my knowledge,” you say. “As I understand it, his credit card activity is being monitored and an APB has been sent out.” 

“Alright, well,” Hank downs the rest of his coffee and stands, rubbing a tired hand down his face. “Let’s get going.” 

Officer Miller is present at the scene when you arrive at a small house a few miles downtown. He greets you warmly, flashing a friendly smile at you both despite the gruesome situation. 

“Detective,” he says, shaking your hand. And then to Hank, “Lieutenant.” 

“What’ve we got Chris?” Hank asks, heading inside. 

“Not much,” Chris answers with a sigh. “Time of death was around two-thirty in the morning, from three gunshot wounds to the chest. Other bruising shows there may have been an altercation between Parker and the suspect, and the neighbor who called it in says she’d seen evidence of possible domestic abuse over the last few months, but that’s about all we’ve got so far.” 

“Any more information on where the suspect may have gone?” you ask. 

“Nothing yet.” Chris gives you a nod and moves out of your way so you can inspect the scene. “I’ll keep you posted.” 

“Thanks Chris,” Hank says, giving the officer a slap on the back as he leaves. He turns to address you, “Let’s see what we’ve got.” 

You get to work, anxious to analyze the crime scene and get more information on the suspect before he gets too far away. 

You find the body, slouched against a wall at the back of the living room, blood from her wounds dried over the last few hours. You examine the bullet wounds and the bruising that Chris mentioned, finding nothing more than he already told you. Except a deeper analysis shows that Mrs. Parker also has several hairline fractures in her wrist and hand and a dislocated shoulder. The fractures date back almost a week, while the dislocated shoulder is more likely from just a few days ago. 

Underneath Mrs. Parker’s nails you discover biological matter, matching the suspect’s DNA. She likely tried to fight off her attacker, scraping him with her nails and getting flakes of skin stuck underneath them. It doesn’t seem that she was able to fight back with any other weapon, succumbing to her wounds within a few minutes. You are also unable to find the murder weapon, meaning the suspect is likely still armed. 

You look around the scene but, with the exception of the body, there is almost no evidence of an altercation. The furniture is in good condition, not upturned or pushed out of the way. The majority of the blood is centered around the body, indicating that the bulk of the skirmish took place in one spot, the same place where Mrs. Parker died. 

With little more to gather from the scene, you take a closer look at the house itself, searching for more information about the suspect. An analysis of a family photo on a side table shows you the suspect’s date and place of birth, as well as his criminal record. It seems that he has been arrested for domestic abuse on several occasions, but for some reason only officially charged once, although he served just a few weeks in prison before he posted bail. 

You’re about to call Hank over to tell him what you found when Officer Miller rejoins you in the house. 

“We’ve got a hit on the suspect’s credit card activity,” he says, holding up a tablet for you to see. “Looks like he withdrew several hundred dollars from an ATM a few miles south of here.” 

“Are there any hotels near the ATM?” you ask. 

Miller presses a few buttons on the tablet, pulling up a map. “Looks like there’s two within five miles.” You also spy a bus station within walking distance from the machine; it’s possible that the suspect has already fled the city. 

You wave Hank over and brief him on the information you gathered as you make your way to his car. He turns on the blinking lights on his dashboard and cranks the radio up, pulsating music throbbing in through the speakers. You give him directions as you speed through traffic, trying to reach the suspect before he thinks to leave the city. 

“Stop here,” you say, tires screeching as Hank comes to a quick stop in front of the first hotel. You decided to head here first, at it is about a mile closer to the ATM machine where the suspect withdrew his cash. 

The woman running the front desk looks bored and tired, barely reacting when you and Hank show her your badges. 

“We’re looking for a man named James Parker,” you say, flashing an image of him on your hand. “Have you seen him?” 

“Yeah?” she says with a drawl. 

“He’s suspected of murder,” Hank clarifies in an annoyed tone. “We need to know what room he’s in.” 

“Holy shit,” the girl says, voice still remarkably disinterested. “Yeah, he’s in room 403, top floor.” 

“We better find this motherfucker,” Hank says to you in the elevator. “What a fucking piece of shit.” 

“We’ll find him,” you reassure. “If he’s not at this hotel, there is another one close by along with a bus station. We’ll continue monitoring his credit card until we find him.” 

Hank just grunts and pulls out his gun, checking the bullets. When the elevator doors slide open with a ding Hank goes in front of you, gun at the ready. You approach the door of room 403 and knock loudly as he waits by your side.

“Detroit police,” you shout. “Open up!” 

When there’s no response, Hank opens the door with a universal key the woman at the front desk gave you and steps slowly inside, holding his gun up. The bed is unmade, while a pile of bloody clothes lies by the bathroom door. The two of you look around the small area, the suspect nowhere in sight. 

Hank begins to push open the bathroom door. “I don’t think he’s-"   


His sentence is interrupted as James Parker pushes him out of the way and sprints out of the bathroom, running through the door of the hotel room. Hank falls to the ground, caught off guard, but when you try to help him up he pushes you in the direction of the door. 

“I’m fine,” he says loudly. “Go, take the gun!” 

You do as he says, grabbing the gun and taking off in the direction of the suspect. You find him in the stairwell, running down the stairs two at a time, and you jump over the banisters to catch up with him. He sprints out of the emergency exit, setting off an alarm as he makes his way down the street. 

You follow as fast as you can, maneuvering around passersby while trying to keep Parker in your line of sight. He takes a sharp turn around the corner of a building and you nearly skid on the half frozen sidewalk in your attempt to make the turn yourself, running too fast. 

When you make it around the corner you find Parker yelling in frustration at the dead end he’s encountered. You hold up the gun and make yourself known. 

“Put down the gun, James,” you instruct slowly. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Julia Parker.” 

“No!” James screams, pointing his gun at you. “No - no, get back!” 

“It’s over,” you say back to him. “You have nowhere else to run.” 

“Get away from me!” He holds onto the gun tighter, hands shaking. 

“James-”

“I’ll shoot!” 

“We can talk about this,” you suggest, slowly lowering your gun in a show of non-violence. 

Hank appears by your side, out of breath, and you turn to look at him. Unfortunately, his presence seems to frighten Parker, who raises his gun with increased vigor, moving it between you and Hank. You lift your own gun again, preparing for the possibility of the suspect shooting. 

“We’re not going to hurt you--” you start, but are interrupted as a bullet whistles past your ear. 

You turn to check if Hank is alright, and time seems to go in slow motion. You see that Hank isn’t injured and direct your attention back to the suspect at the same time he starts to shoot. Your arm juts out to push Hank out of the way, moving to stand in front of him as more shots ring out, trying to protect him. 

Parker nearly hits you but you angle your shoulder away to avoid the bullet, maintaining your balance. You hold your gun steady, aiming down the barrel at the suspect’s hand, planning to disarm him. You put your free hand behind you and grab onto Hank’s shirt to keep him in place as you pull the trigger on your gun… 

And miss. 

A bullet collides with your body, ripping a hole through your shoulder and several biocomponents. The gun falls out of your hand, clattering to the pavement, and another shot impacts with your stomach. You hit the ground, hands reaching out for Hank as he picks up the gun and takes off towards Parker. 

You hear a scuffle but are unable to see it, your vision going blurry as thirium leaks out of your wounds. More shots ring out, several from each gun, until they stop, suddenly, and Hank leans over you. A gentle hand comes under your neck, lifting your head. You spot the suspect on the ground a few feet in front of you, holding his leg in pain as blood flows from a gunshot injury. 

“Connor!” Hank is saying to you. “Connor, are you okay?” 

You are not okay. Four of your biocomponents are severely damaged and you are quickly losing thirium. Hank gets on his phone and provides your location, telling whoever is on the other side that the suspect has been incapacitated and a detective is down. 

“What should I do?” he asks, starting to get frantic as he presses his hand down on the bullet hole in your shoulder, trying to stop the bleeding. Blue liquid covers his fingers. “Should I take you to CyberLife? I can-”

“No, don’t,” you manage to choke out. “They’ll just deactivate me.” The tail end of your sentence trails off as your voice stops working, body quickly shutting down. You hear Hank calling your name as your vision goes black and his voice slowly fades away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't worry hes not dead lmao  
> also i realized very suddenly this week that i am Not a good writer and im not a huge fan of this story much anymore, but hopefully that feeling will pass and i can get the next chapter done, which will probably be the last one.   
> thanks again to everyone for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

The lake has flooded. Water cascades through the garden, overturning benches and small trees, almost knocking you off balance as it flows against your ankles. You look around, confused. Is this death? You don’t  _ feel  _ dead but you only recently learned what it even means to feel alive. 

Rushing water makes it difficult for you to move, but a figure in the distance gets your attention and you start heading their way. In the dim, clouded light of the garden the figure is nothing but a silhouette, a black outline against the stark white of the bridge. You push against the current, desperate for some sort of clarity in the muddiness, hoping that the figure can provide you with an explanation. 

You struggle to get to the bench on which the silhouette is sitting, feeling weak and shaky, as if you’re about to shut down at any moment. When you finally reach him, standing behind the bench, you throw a hand onto his shoulder, partly to get his attention and partly to catch your balance. He turns, and you nearly fall over upon seeing his face. 

It’s you, except… it’s not you. It’s a different version of you, smiling and bright, seemingly unperturbed by the flooded lake or the foreboding clouds. He smiles at you and his LED is gone, replaced with smooth, human-like skin. The jacket you still wear day to day, indicating your status as an android, is replaced with street clothes, a simple t-shirt and jeans. And the turmoil you feel inside of you, panic mixed with confusion, is nowhere to be found on your doppleganger’s face. He smiles at you, eyes crystal clear. 

“You need to wake up,” he says in your voice. “You were hurt pretty badly; I’m sure Hank is worried.” 

“Where am I?” you ask, referring to the world outside of the garden. 

“I don’t know,” he replies honestly. His voice, cheery in tone, contrasts harshly with the environment. “Perhaps you need to wake up to find out.” 

You open your mouth to speak, but the water around you suddenly turns a bright, unnatural blue, the color of thirium. The weakness in your core seems to subside momentarily, slowly bringing you back to consciousness. You look up at your other self, who smiles at you briefly before disappearing entirely as you begin to wake up. 

The first thing you see upon opening your eyes is Elijah Kamski, standing over you with a strange device. You try to sit up, but several chords attached to your body halt your movements, trapping you to a metal table. Kamski doesn’t seem to notice you’re awake until you flail, movements sharp and unsteady, and he pushes you back onto the table with a firm hand. 

“Stay still,” he instructs in his smooth, deep voice. “If you pull out your IVs your thirium pump will shut down, and I won’t be able to fix it.” 

You obey, lying back down on the cold table as Kamski continues his ministrations. A closer look at the chords and you see the thirium flowing through them and into your body, cool blue and just a little thicker than water. The different IVs, attached to hanging bags of thirium, flow into your open chest, where Kamski is working on your thirium pump and regulator with a small welding device. You don’t like Kamski, not after the sick game he made you play with Chloe, and you feel the pump in your chest speed up. 

“Where’s Hank?” you ask, voice shaking. 

“He’s in the hallway,” Kamski answers nonchalantly. “He said he didn’t want to see you like this.” 

“Is he okay?” The last thing you remember is the suspect you were pursuing pulling out a gun, shots ringing out around you.

“He’s fine,” Kamski says simply. 

You nod, settling into the cool metal of the work table. A quick scan indicates that the biocomponents that were damaged in the firefight have since been repaired and that Kamski is not, in fact, doing any sick experiments on you. Approximately two and a half hours have passed since the incident and your thirium pump, grazed by a flying bullet, is still running at forty percent capacity. With each movement of Kamski’s hands the percentage goes up by one, two, until it’s back at one hundred within a few more minutes. 

Hank must have taken you here while your body went into low power mode, putting you into a forced standby in order to conserve energy and prevent an imminent shut down. He made the right choice, given the circumstances; there’s no way he could’ve taken you to CyberLife for repairs or for a replacement. There are no more stores that sell androids, given the new legislation, and there is no one else that you know of who could help you, especially considering the nature of your model. You’re a prototype that never entered the basic market, therefore there are no compatible biocomponents available anywhere outside of CyberLife that you’re aware of. 

Kamski, however, as a former employee of CyberLife and one of  the inventors of androids, would have more knowledge about androids than anyone else you could possibly reach out to. He seems to have augmented other biocomponents in order to make them compatible with your model, and pumped thirium into your body that he likely had with him in order to do regular maintenance on his Chloe models.  

The Chloes. You look around, realizing that you and Kamski are alone in a room you’ve never seen before, full of boxes with CyberLife labels and another table full of tools. You watch Kamski carefully as he works, still wary of his intentions. 

“The female androids you had when Hank and I first came here,” you starts. “Where are they?” 

“They left,” he says. “Deviated not long after you visited.”

“And you let them leave?” 

“Yes,” he says. And then, “Why wouldn’t I?” 

You blink. You suppose you don’t really have a reason to assume Kamski would force his androids to live with him if they didn’t want to. It’s just that his indifference toward them, his apparent lack of empathy or regard for their lives, has led you to believe that he perhaps saw his Chloe models as servants rather than companions. You are glad to hear that he let them go. 

“Deviancy,” Kamski starts, finishing up his work, “is such a fascinating phenomenon. The android you performed my test with deviated the earliest, and the rest followed soon after.” 

Kamski finishes repairing you, detaching the chords and the IV, and you sit up hesitantly. Your shirt is unbuttoned, blue blood staining it in several places, and your hands shake just a little bit when you readjust it. 

“I didn’t quite have enough synthetic fiber to totally repair the wound in your shoulder,” Kamski explains with a gesture to your body. “You’ll have a scar.” 

You slide your hand under your shirt, feeling a slight raise in the skin on your left shoulder, bumpy and uneven. When you remove your hand you partly expect it to come back with blue liquid staining your fingers, but it’s clean, smooth and pristine. 

“How did this happen?” Kamski asks you, curious. “I didn’t have time to ask the lieutenant; you had lost too much thirium.” 

“We were pursuing a suspect in a homicide case and he was armed,” you explain. “Based on the calculations I did at the time, it seemed that Hank was in the line of fire, so I…” You trail off, unsure, and Kamski picks up your sentence. 

“You became distracted,” he offers. “You focused on protecting him instead of detaining the other man.” 

“Yes, I suppose that’s true,” you say. You didn’t realize you had the potential to become distracted, deviant or otherwise. 

“Distractions, divergences from the original goals provided by your programming, are just one part of deviancy,” he explains. “I’m sure you’ve also found your body malfunctioning as well, perhaps stuttering? Have you felt yourself stumble at any point since deviating?” 

“Yes,” you say, suddenly intrigued. You don’t trust Kamski, but the fact that he repaired you and is willing to provide information on deviance has slightly changed your perception of him. “Is that… normal?” Nothing about deviance is normal. You know this. 

“Just a slight side effect,” he says calmly. “Your brain was only made to handle a certain amount of functions at once - reconstruction, analysis, probability. Adding emotions and independent thoughts may overload your systems at certain points, especially if you’re performing an action that is particularly against your programming.” 

“So, I’m not defective?” you asks, your fears not yet satiated. 

“No, you’re defective, but that has nothing to do with what you’re experiencing,” he states. “You deviated, that’s a defect. But the side effects you’ve experienced are more than normal. They should subside in a few weeks.” 

You feel something like relief flood into you, then anticipation. You get off the table and move for the only door in the room, likely leading into the hallway where Hank is waiting for you. Before you turn the doorknob you stop, addressing Kamski again. 

“The first time I was here, you said you always keep an exit in your programs,” you start. “Why did you tell me that?” 

“Because I wanted you to find it,” he answers simply, then waves a hand at the door. He looks tired. “Your friend is waiting for you.” 

“Thank you,” you say, opening the door. And then again, “Thank you.” 

You don’t see or hear Kamski’s response, because you rush down the hallway, not quite running, and fall into Hank’s awaiting arms. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he says in your ear. “Don’t ever pull that shit again, do you hear me?” 

Something pulls at the inside of your chest, and you worry that Kamski did something wrong and your thirium pump is malfunctioning again, but you realize it’s just relief and the fondness you feel for Hank. The happiness you’re nearly overwhelmed in, wrapped in a hug, when you were worried that you were going to die, that you wouldn't ever see him again. The memory you have of Hank pulling a gun on you and asking if you’re afraid to die comes to the forefront of your mind, and the answer is yes. 

Hank releases you from his firm hold, holding you at arm’s length and looking you up and down. He grimaces at the splotches of blue on your shirt and you notice that your jacket is draped over the chair he was sitting in. It has several holes in it, the fabric torn from the impact of the bullets. You don’t think you’ll be wearing it anymore. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Hank suggests in response to your thoughtful silence. “This place gives me the fucking creeps.” 

In the car, Hank turns to you every few moments, apparently to make sure you are still alive. He looks at you three separate times before speaking. 

“Did Kamski say anything to you?” he asks. 

“Yes,” you answer, always honest with Hank. “He told me that the other androids he had, the Chloe models, have all left.” 

“Really?” Hank asks, eyebrows raised. “And he let them go?” 

“Yes. He said the one he tried to get me to shoot deviated first.” 

Hank grunts, taking that in. “And the others?” 

“They all deviated soon enough.” 

You reach for your jacket pocket to get your coin, a habit you developed, only to remember that you’re no longer wearing the jacket. You feel a strange ache, a desire to fiddle with something as you speak. You long for your coin but clasp your hands together instead. 

“Kamski also said that the problems I’ve been having, the stuttering and… when I was unable to properly detain the suspect,” you say, uncertain, “are all just side effects of becoming a deviant. My brain occasionally becomes overloaded with new inputs and… distractions.” 

“I did notice that,” Hanks says with a nod. “I saw you trip over your own fucking feet the other day like some kind of newborn lamb.” 

“Yes, well, that should subside soon,” you say. 

Hank nods again. “Good… can’t have you missin’ all your shots on duty,” he says. “Nearly got yourself killed.” 

“I’m okay,” you say, partly to convince yourself. You’re still a bit shaken up, if you’re being completely honest. 

“I know,” Hank says, reaching a hand over to you and giving you a small squeeze on the back of your neck. “But one day you might not be.” 

You look down at your joined hands, shame washing over you. “I was focused on making sure you were okay,” you explain. “I wasn’t thinking straight when I shot.” 

“My body is easier to fix than yours,” Hank argues. “You can’t just be replaced like you could a month ago; you’ve gotta focus on keeping yourself safe.” 

“The human body is actually almost as complicated as an android body,” you point out. “It would take quite a lot of-”

“Connor,” Hank says firmly. “I don’t care about all that scientific bullshit, okay, just… don’t put yourself in danger to keep me out of harm’s way, alright? I don’t know what I’d-” He stops suddenly, swallowing before he continues. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” 

“I’ll try to be more careful,” you offer with a frown. Hank has made so much progress in dealing with the loss of his son since you met him; you don’t want to think about what would happen to him if you died. 

“Good,” is all he says in response, unusually quiet. You notice him swallow several more times. 

The car ride continues in relative silence, a little tense but mostly quite comfortable. You allow your mind to wander for a moment, drifting back to the figure you encountered in the garden, the other version of you. He had looked so at peace, so calm and happy, so  _ human _ , wearing regular clothing, no trace of the LED in his forehead. 

Based on what you know about humans and what it means to be a deviant, you think maybe he was your conscience. Or maybe the person you want to become, an android confident in his deviancy, his humanity, his choices. Or maybe he was only present as a result of the trauma to your body, another defect in your system. You don’t know, and you realize with a start that it doesn’t really matter. 

“I think,” you say slowly, “that I want to remove my LED.” 

“Really? Why?” Hank asks, voice strong. 

“I… don’t know,” you answer honestly. “It’s not really necessary anymore, is it? I have no reason to make my identity as an android known and I’ve been a deviant for over a month now. I see it as a natural progression of things.” 

“Alright, I guess that makes sense,” Hank agrees. “We’ll do it when we get home, yeah?” 

You nod, feelings a small smile pull at your mouth. You think you’re excited to take one more step into your new life, one more step towards the version of yourself that you’ve envisioned in your mind. 

Soon you’re in front of the mirror, inspecting your reflection, thinking about how different you’ll look without your LED. You’re wearing one of Hank’s t-shirts, a little too big on you, as a replacement for your torn and blood-stained dress shirt. You like the way it looks on you, so normal, so casual, so human. 

“Alright, you ready?” Hank asks next to you. He’s holding a pair of scissors in one hand and pliers in the other. You weren’t sure which would be better. 

“I can do it myself,” you remind him with a small smile. 

“I know,” he says defensively, moving towards you anyways. 

He starts with the pliers first, but the point is too blunt to get enough leverage under the LED so he switches to the scissors. His movements are slow and a little hesitant until you remind him that it is literally impossible for him to hurt you. 

“It’s common for an android’s skin to pull away at the site of an injury,” you tell him. “Don’t be alarmed if that happens as you’re removing the LED.” 

“Ah, Jesus,” he grumbles into your ear. “I don’t wanna see you without your fuckin’ skin.” 

“Don’t worry, it will only last a moment.” 

He doesn’t answer, instead sighing and continuing his work on the side of your head, muttering to himself about androids and their “weird skin.” You watch him in the mirror, lips pressed into a line, forehead creased with concentration. It takes several moments for you to feel the scissors poke underneath the light, and soon it pops off with a metallic sound, clanging into the sink. 

Your skin does pull away momentarily, but quickly covers over the empty space where the LED had been. Hank grimaces at it for a second before catching your eye in the reflection of the mirror.

“What do you think?” he asks. 

You graze a finger over the spot, feeling a slight bump in the LED’s absence. “I look… human.” 

“That was the point, wasn’t it?” 

You smile. “Yes, it was,” you say. “I like it.” 

“Good, it was a lot of fucking work.” Hank’s reflection leaves the mirror as he moves behind you to get your dirty shirt off the floor, making a face at the article. “Humans don’t wear the same clothes everyday, you know.” 

“Yes, that’s true,” you agree. 

“Tomorrow we’re going out,” he suggest. “Gonna buy you some regular clothes so you’re not walking around looking like a tightass all the time.” 

“And while we’re out,” he adds before you can reply. “I’m buying you an MP3 player; there’s no way I’m letting you live your whole life only listening to three fucking songs.” 

“That… sounds good,” you say. “Thank you.” 

Hank gives you another squeeze on the neck and leaves the bathroom in favor of the living room, where you hear the TV turn on. You turn back to the mirror, checking out your new appearance, so human-like it’s almost startling. The image of your other self from the garden presents itself to you, now much more similar to how you look in real life. You smile, your reflection smiling back at you, and you feel happy, hopeful. You feel human. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im not like super duper happy with this chapter but im really proud of myself for finishing something for once! i havent finished a story in years due to lots and lots of depression but im really glad to be back into writing. 
> 
> and thank you all again so much for all the support, the kudos and comments really kept me going when i thought this story was garbage and i wouldve given up on it if you all werent so sweet!


End file.
